Night Sounds
by libra78
Summary: Sam gets scared of the noises in their motel. Dean wants to protect him. Just another night for the winchester brothers. Weechesters, outsider POV


**Author's note: Hi to anyone who's out there! This is my first ever fic I've ever posted, so excited and nervous! I'm still trying to figure most of this out, so sorry if I screwed anything up. (Pointers would actually be great, if anyone wants to share) You guys have a really great community and I'm super thrilled to be joining! I know not a lot of people will read this, but if you do could you take a minute to throw me a review? That would be awesome. Like really awesome. Cannot stress enough how awesome it would be. The good, the bad, yada, yada. Very much appreciated and thank you!**

(Also this is rated T for some **very** light swearing. Better safe than sorry)

 **Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sadness. :( But I can dream. :)**

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The wind howled outside the thin, plaster walls of the rundown motel, sending stray fast food wrappers and beer cans skittering across cracked pavement, orange glowing vacancy sign flickering weakly against the night.

Inside, the desk clerk sat in a squeaky swivel chair, cigarette puffing as it dangled between her cherry red lips, magazine pages flipping rhythmically.

Loud shouting and angry sobbing, accompanied by the sounds of furniture crashing and breaking echoed down the short hallway over the rumble of the overheated ice machine. Drunken singing could faintly be heard over the storm, manic laughter mixing in with the lyrics. A TV quietly hummed static from one of the rooms.

Behind one of the dozen or so flimsy wooden doors stood a boy, barely older than eleven with his ear pressed against the surface, listening. He checked the locks and the thick line of salt across the threshold, glistening in the moonlight that filtered in through the paper thin curtains.

Satisfied, he rose from his crouch, rubbing a hand over the dark purple bruises of exhaustion under his green eyes. Eyes that looked much too burdened and weary to belong to a child. Maybe because he wasn't a child anymore, and hadn't been for a long time.

He padded across the grimy shag carpeting to a small wooden table shoved into the corner of the room. He passed a cork board hung on the wall, sections of maps, faces circled in red marker, texts from greek and roman lore, and scribbled notes pinned up in a haphazard fashion.

Pushing aside empty bottles of cheap scotch and whiskey, he opened the lumpy brown duffel slumped against the wall, and pulled out a short, double barreled shotgun. He expertly opened the chamber, checked the rounds, and clicked the weapon shut, engaging the safety.

A small lump wrapped in ratty sheets that had previously remained motionless on one of the two twin beds shifted at the noise, a mop of brown hair peeking out from under the covers. A voice, small but trying to sound bigger came from the general vicinity of the head.

"Is Dad coming back?" There was a pause as the boy walked to sit down on the empty bed heaving a sigh into the darkness and running a hand through his hair.

"No, not tonight Sammy. But soon. He'll be back soon."Another pause.

"Alright." It was quiet and resigned, deflated.

"Just try and get some sleep, Sam. Dad'll be back in the morning and we'll have to leave early."

The lump shifted away in answer, head disappearing under the sheets. The boy sighed again and rested the shotgun against the head of his mattress, barrel down to the floor. All the lights were already off so he pulled back his quilt, stained with nicotine and eaten by moths, and rolled into the bed, tugging it over his shoulder.

When the rustling had died down and the boy's breathing slowly evened out, the lump carefully raised itself up on propped elbows, head popping out of it's blankets slipped off a thin frame, large t-shirt hanging loosely off his torso. The smaller boy pulled himself the rest of the way up to sit against the headboard, skinny arms wrapping around his knees. He flinched at the din outside of the room and glanced over to the shape now occupying the second bed.

He shuddered, rubbing his arms and pulling the sheets up around him. Wild whooping and shrieking floated past whatever feeble protection the window offered. The little boy, who could be no more than seven, closed his eyes and swallowed, the grind of the ice machine filling his ears, rattling like the breath of some grotesque monster.

A monster he didn't yet know was real.

There was a loud boom as it began to rain, a moderate pitter patter already steadying itself to a vibrating thrum against the roof. The child jumped, eyes darting wildly to the bed next to him, a struggle etched clearly across his features.

When the screaming and furious shouting from down the hall started again he winced, seeming to have made up his mind. Silently, he threw off the covers small toes reaching for the floor. He walked softly around the end of his bed coming to a hesitant stop at the edge of it's twin, hands twisting anxiously.

"Dean?" His voice is barely a whisper but the still form moved, groaning softly. Maybe it's a big brother thing. "Go back to sleep, Sam," came the disgruntled reply. "Dean." His words wavered as he tried desperately to keep hold of his calm facade. A rustle of the bedspread and then a spiky haired head popped up, bleary, his voice a sleep ridden mumble.

"Cm'on Sammy, gettin' too old for this."

"I know, I'm sorry, I. . .Sorry I'll just-"

"Get in."

"What?"

"You can get in, just don't be a girl about it." An arm reached back and flipped open the covers. Slowly, the younger boy crawled in and pulled the covers back over the both of them. "Holy shit! Dude, your feet are freezing!" He couldn't help but let out a chuckle, reigning it in as the older sibling let out a discontented grunt. "Stay on your side."

"Sorry." The noise seemed to pass all around them, the shouting and rattling and buzz of the television all blending into one threatening wail. He manages it for a while. Minutes? Hours? Or only seconds? Eventually the boy's small chest starts to heave in labored breaths, and he presses his hands against his ears to block out the sounds of fear and confusion grasping at him, tugging as if to tear him apart. He squeezes his eyes shut against the panic he didn't know he was holding back.

" _Dean."_ His lips move but nothing comes out. His brother happens to glance over, maybe that instinct that everything wasn't right. Who knows.

"Hey, hey, hey. Come on buddy. We'll be okay." Arms reached out and turned the huddled body into his own, wrapping around his quaking shoulders. And he couldn't help but remember the cooing baby he'd cradled in his arms the same way not so long ago. A small whimper shattered the rest of the noises. "Hey, we're all right. Dad'll be back soon, and the we can leave, yeah?"

He rubbed the small boy's back gently as his little brother curled closer to his chest, hand gripping his bicep.

The preeteen who should have been the one being comforted, the one held in a parent's loving embrace, the one who shouldn't be in this situation at all, was the one who was now holding his brother close, whispering assurances and small comforts. He was the one cupping his head away from the sounds of the backwater motel in the middle of nowhere, a place that was just another pit stop for them.

Because really, all he wanted to do was protect him from the truth of what was really out there, for just a little while longer. Let him believe, for just a little longer that the worst thing out there was a garbling ice machine, or a couple screaming insults at each other, or a few drunk things he knew scared him. For his baby brother. Because he wasn't sure if he could protect him from everything that lurked in the dark.

Finally, the trembling slowed as the boy's erratic heartbeat latched onto his sibling's. He still had his head buried deep in his brother's shirt, taking slow breaths.

"Dean."

"Yeah?"

"What was that song Mom used to sing to you? When you were upset?"

"She used to sing it to you too remember?"

There was a pregnant pause until the oldest cleared his throat, not realizing how close to tears he'd been himself.

"It's okay. I do." He began to rock his brother, just slightly, barely even moving.

" _Hey Jude. . .Don't make it bad . . ."_

The melody escaped from his lips in a whisper, that somehow seemed to carry, drowning out everything else.

 _"Take a sad song. . .And make it better. . ."_

She used to tell him angels were watching over him.

 _"Remember. . .to let her into your heart. . ._

He used to believe her.

 _"Then you can start. . .To make it better. . . "_

He wasn't so sure anymore.


End file.
